Tarnished Picture Frames
by Vacancy
Summary: She doesn't know why she keeps them, but she can't bear to throw them away. Lined up on her mantel, faces she once knew, once loved, staring back at her from a happier time. Collection of Snapshots
1. Kyoya Ootori : Friendship : First Year

A/N: **Due to my love of ALL of the Host Members x Haruhi, and I'm finding that I can only do one in the long-term projects, I'm doing a snapshot-series. Be forewarned, this is going to go far and wide. No male at Ouran is safe from my shipping fury.**

**Anyway, I gratefully accept ideas for a fluffy chapter, and thanks for clicking!**

Disclaimer:_ I totally own OHSHC. And thats why I'm writing fan fiction xP _

_**-x-**_

Kyoya Ootori

First Year at Ouran

_Snapshot One:_

_He didn't need to, but he'd do anything for her_

The picture frame was cut in a modern fashion, all hard, definitive edges and sharp corners. That frame left no room for contemplation, and neither did it's occupants.

Haruhi sat cross-legged under on a bed of bright green grass, a bough of pink blossoms hanging over her head, her eyes on a textbook in her lap, addressing Kyoya Ootori, her mouth slightly open, brandishing a yellow pencil, a few petals drifting behind them, while Kyoya leaned against a white-brick wall opposite her, staring intently at the face of the girl in front of him.

**-x-**

"Therefore _x_ is equivalent to the square root of _y_, which we use the second equation to determine . . ."

Her mouth moved along the words, tumbling out of her lips as quickly as her pencil moved, skating across the ultra-white of copy paper, making numbers appear out of graphite. He liked the way she wrote. Her strokes were thin, stick like, but her characters were finite, making an intricate, elaborate bed of intertwining lines.

". . . which is nine," she finished, looking up from her paper which was sitting on her thick textbook, obviously a little proud of herself, searching his face for confirmation.

"Very good," he said, managing to keep his voice detached."You will obviously not lose your scholarship this year, Haruhi."

"Good," she exhaled, flopping onto her back on the grass, her legs still crossed. "When you asked for me to show you how I was doing in my courses I was afraid you knew my grades were slipping somehow."

"Are they?" he asked, feeling the slight glimmer of panic that was the furthest extent of confusion he ever experienced, already assigning himself as her tutor.

"No!" she said, offended. She propped herself up on her elbows and eyed him warily. He tried not to let on that her big, innocent brown eyes were sending a slight shiver down his spine. "They're not, are they?"

"How would I know?" he asked. "Any better than you?"

"The Shadow King knows all," she mumbled superstitiously. "And I thought I'd failed a test or something in all of my classes or my report card got defaulted to all failing grades . . . _no one_ would know better than you . . ." she paused. "You don't think they will, do you?"

"No," he replied with surety, and she exhaled again.

"Why aren't they out here harassing us for missing Host Club activities?" she wondered vaguely. He knew who 'they' were instantly—one of them was blond and the others were his personal hell.

An image of the sandbags they'd used for an army cosplay heaped against the Third Music Rooms' doorway flitted into his mind.

"Too busy, most likely," he answered truthfully. Too busy clawing through tons of sand.

"It's so lovely out in spring," she sighed, plucking up a piece of grass from the manicured lawn and rolling it around in her fingers absently until it formed a green cylinder. They were surrounded on all four sides by cool white stone walls, but the sun shone brightly down through a skylight that covered the enclosure, and two corridors that led outside coaxed tentative breezes into the enclosure. A cherry tree gave them shade in a corner of the square courtyard, with the corners filled with lush, green grass and splashes of flowers at the circles' center.

"It is beautiful," he agreed, staring solely at her face, gaging her reaction. A slight wind stirred the boughs of the tree above, and a few petals drifted down, frosting-pink, settling in dark strands of her hair. He knew what his father wanted him to do, he knew why Haruhi had consented to coming down here with him, to avoid Tamaki, who was building up steam to try to pursue romantically in earnest, which scared her. And, faintest of all yet somehow the most important—why he liked her, more than he should, associated with her gladly, though there were no merits assured.

"Do you enjoy nature, senpai?" she asked, her large eyes boring into him. "You spend so much time on your laptop."

"I . . ." He was stuck, because simply, he didn't know. Did he enjoy nature? The only thing that sprang to mind was cherry-blossom festivals and how the cool, airy weather made the clients more inclined to spend time at the Host Club when it featured outdoors activities.

"I love nature," she declared. "When I was little, my house was tiny, but we had a park just across the street. I used to spend all day climbing the trees, having picnics with my mother, she told me I might as well be a monkey, with all the time I spent up in trees."

"A monkey?" he choked, and he couldn't help it, he laughed. For the first time in front of her, he laughed—not, because she'd said anything particularly funny, but that she had classified herself as a monkey and not a beauty, an intellectual, an equal—no, that she had just told him something that the Host Club didn't know about her, something deep, something about her mother, and he didn't know what to do with the feeling of pity and grief for her, so he displayed it with something equally strange for him—laughter.

"Senpai!" she said, her face dusted with pink at his laughter.

"I'm sorry, Haruhi," he said, chortling. "But you, a monkey?"

"I was good at climbing trees," she said crossly.

"Why don't you climb this one, then?"

She stared at him oddly, like she didn't know who he was—fair enough, he was losing caution and showing more and more of what he sometimes longed to be—Tamaki Suou, carefree, sunny, full of shining happiness.

"For marketing. A romantic lunch with Haruhi Fujioka in the canopy of a tree . . ." he did the calculations. "I could get a thousand yen for an hour."

She choked, and this time it was her laughing.

"No, thank you, senpai."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Senpai?" she asked tentatively, folding her blazer nervously. Fold, unfold. Crease. Uncrease.

"Yes, Haruhi?"

"Why did you ask me out here today? If you knew my grades weren't slipping."

"I just wanted to make sure you're doing well in your studies," he lied easily. "After all, I am your mother."

She turned her head away at his small joke, and he felt regret settle into his heart. It was fine for Tamaki to be her father, as she still had one, but his masquerading as her mother—infrequent as it was for him to take the part—must have caused a pang.

But why had he asked her to show him how she was doing in her studies? The answer was simple:

He didn't need to, but he'd do anything for her.

**I know it's not too long, but well. Snapshots can get pretty short. I think I'll like writing like this—one-shot ish, but better. You know? 'Cause they're all congregated.**

**You know, if you've ever read one of my Authors Notes before, I do not forgive those who Author Alert and Favorite without reviewing. I want to know WHY.**

**Trés Adore,**

**-Vacancy**


	2. Tamaki Suou : Friendship : First Year

A/N: **Heh, chapter two. There can be no promises on how close these chapters will be published, between my other stories that I have plot ideas to, school, and my other obligations. I'm doing the best I can! But thanks to those who reviewed! I'm accepting ideas for picture frames and plots for each of the characters.**

Disclaimer: I do not own Ouran High School Host Club

Tamaki Suou

First Year

**-x-**

The frame was a lacework of silver strands, elegant, frilly, and looking rather like something one would see at a Hallmark store.

The picture inside was blurry, bad quality, a freeze-frame from a security camera printed out and sent to Haruhi with the words 'To remember' scrawled by some unknown hands, years after she graduated.

A brunette boy hunched over a sink, hand to his mouth, his eyes closed, half of a blond boy just barely in the side of the picture, his face contorted in worry and fear.

**-x-**

The only thing that made Tamaki different from the rest of the Host Club in their pursuit of Haruhi was that he didn't have any obstructions.

If anything, it was all easier for him. His father supported his chasing her, he had no angst-filled twin still half in love with her, he had no calculating mind telling him that she was merely an obstruction. All he had was his heart and the fortune he would someday own.

But for some reason this made it even harder. He had nothing to yell at her when she was naïve and blithe and so, awfully, unable to understand how much he'd sacrificed—he had not given up a perfect union between equals, he had no business-oriented mind that had been ruined because of her. All he had was Hosting talents, and the fact that they didn't work on a certain Fujioka Haruhi.

The twins were always able to play it off as sibling affection, drawing Haruhi into their close bond, but for Tamaki, it had always been different. He couldn't even act like a friend. He had to go straight to boyfriend or bust. There was no middle ground for Suou Tamaki. He noticed, the familiar layout of Host Members in group photos and welcoming scenes—it was the twins sitting next to her, draped over her—and he standing behind, distant, protective, a father.

It was driving him absolutely mad.

Haruhi fidgeted in her seat, uncomfortable to a painful extent. She had been like that the entire club period, restless, standing up, walking around, plopping back into a seat and pressing her hands to her back, lying on a couch for a minute, standing up, wandering off. Kyoya had canceled all her Hosting appointments, but she seemed odd, day dreamy, like she was preoccupied with something.

Tamaki was taking a break in between client groups, standing next to Kyoya where he was looking after Haruhi with irritation creasing the black haired boys' eyes as she stood from her chair and wandered off into the kitchens, a pained expression on her face.

"Tamaki," he said, his voice brimful with annoyance. "Go ask Haruhi what's wrong. We're losing business and she looks like she's sick."

"Right," he said, having been waiting for just this order for about ten minutes now, not wanting to go off on a jaunt after Haruhi and then be mocked by everyone when she sent him away. He walked over towards the kitchen door, fidgeting with the samauri costume he'd donned for the day's cosplay. It was cumbersome and irritating.

He pushed open to the door to the kitchen, peering around for Haruhi. He didn't see her.

"Haruhi?" he called apprehensively.

"Tamaki?" came the confused reply. She leaned out from her place at a sink on the other side of a pillar. "Is everything okay?"

"Kyoya was worried about you," he informed, squinting over at her. She had water cupped in her hands and—what seemed to be a bottle of pills on the counter. It all clicked in his head, and he saw what she was going to do. "No! Haruhi, don't take the pills! Don't do it!"

"What?" she asked, bewildered, her face turning red.

"Don't, Haruhi! Whatever troubles you're going through are not worth your life! The Host Club loves you!"

"What?" she asked incredulously. "What, do you think I'm taking all of them, senpai?"

"But . . ." he dwindled back to regular size. "Wasn't that what you were going to do? Overdose on pills?"

"Why would I do that?" Her voice was irritated, and she was glaring at him.

"Well . . . you were looking a little sad and . . ." He trailed off and quickly changed the subject. "Are you okay? You're acting strangely and we're all worried."

"It's nothing, senpai," she said, turning, gulping down the water and popping one of the pills into her mouth.

Her obvious dodging of the question made him even more concerned.

"What is it, Haruhi?" he asked, inching towards her. "You can tell Papa."

She rolled her eyes. "No, really, Tamaki, it's nothing. Don't worry about it."

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

"Haruhi, just tell me whats wrong! Are you sick? Are you infected with smallpox? Depression? Will you die? Don't die, Haruhi!"

"Let go of me," she said, sweat dropping. "It's nothing serious. It will be gone by tomorrow."

"How do you know?" he demanded. "It could be fatal!"

"It's not fatal!" she said, and her face turned bright red. "It's no big problem. It'll be gone tomorrow, and I'll be okay then. Now let go of me!"

"Not until you tell me what's wrong with you!"

"Fine!" she said, and her voice dropped to nearly inaudible tones. "It's menstrual cramps, okay?"

He released her like she was some kind of leper, and she fell to the ground, hard tile hitting her back.

"Owhhhh," she said, and she rubbed her stomach. "Thanks, Tamaki. Go back to Hosting."

"I'm so sorry, my daughter!" he said, but he surveyed her from a safe three feet away. "But I've heard that women in your . . . er . . . condition are extremely irritable."

"Only when we're dropped on floors," she said, wincing. "The muscle relaxant should be kicking in soon. You can leave, Tamaki."

"Are . . . are you in . . . _pain_, Haruhi?" he asked haltingly, and the brunette laughed.

"Of course I'm in pain, Tamaki, but it's not bad. I'll be fine by tomorrow, you—"

He swept her up in his arms and despite her protesting, carried her over towards a supply closet.

"We have blankets in here," he said. "I'll make you a little bed and bring you some soup! Or . . . Haruhi, how do you make soup?"

Haruhi's scoff couldn't dampen the lovely mental image he conjured—Haruhi snuggled into blankets, looking up at him with her wide, adoring eyes, eating soup from a spoon he offered to her. His eyes immediately took on a dreamy quality, and none of her other protests were heeded, as he placed her on the top shelf, where she sat, her eyes crossed in irritation, and he buzzed around, making a nest on the cobbled floor.

"Tamaki, this isn't necessary," she objected as he lifted her down and showed her, all excited smiles, how they had some extra seat warmer parts in the closet that he'd plugged to make makeshift heating pads, and they could snuggled in the blankets there, see?

"Wait, what do you mean by _we_?" she asked suspiciously before being yanked down into the nest and snuggled in forcibly by the blond, who excitedly tapped a panel, which made heat exude from three spots, one on the small of her back.

"Look, Haruhi, isn't this comfortable?"

"Well . . . yes," she said grudgingly, shying away from his enthusiasm. "It would be better . . . if you would leave, though."

His face fell.

"Leave? Fine. Maybe I'll just . . . maybe I'll just go then."

He hadn't moved a muscle, and Haruhi could tell that he would going to stay snuggled in the warm space until she shouted him out. And all she wanted to do was sleep—the pain had kept her up the night previously, and the warm space was extremely welcoming in the cold mid-June.

"Haruhi, the blankets are coming undone. Scoot back a little."

"I would, senpai . . ."

"What?" He frowned deeply.

". . . but your sword is pointing at me."

"Oh!" Tamaki exhaled, fumbling with the many buckles and catches that affixed his sheathed samauri sword to his silk uniform. "I can't get it off!"

"Here, Tamaki," the barest trace of laughter in her voice as she reached over his shoulder and deftly removed the sword belt from him.

"Oh . . . thank you, Haruhi," he said, blushing.

"Sure, senpai. Now let me relax, you're only being a bother."

She obligingly didn't move away again, not wanting Tamaki to go into another fit over the blankets and heating pads being disturbed. The solidness of his stomach was just barely brushed by the tips of her fingers. He felt no blush rise on his face, just tenderness as he looked at Haruhi, falling asleep so easily, nearly unruffled by their proximity, so beautiful . . .

Her breath came in and out of her mouth, settling into the tempo of sleep. She must have been very tired, to succumb to sleep so easily. He felt a pang. What kept her up at nights? Was it anything compared to what bothered him? Who was he to think he had troubles, when Haruhi had gone through so much? Or had he just been watching too much Oshin lately?

"Oi, Tono, what're you doing with Haruhi?"

Haruhi didn't wake; but Tamaki started, looking up at the assembled Host Club, who were staring down at him with vague disgust.

"He was cuddling," Kaoru sneered. "Nasty pervert."

"No!" he objected. "No, it wasn't like that!"

Haruhi was jarred into wakefulness, barely groggy from her two minutes of sleep.

"My _God_," she said, her voice full of irritation. "Between Tamaki and you people I can't sleep at all."

Silence.

"Tono . . . what _exactly_ were you doing with Haruhi . . . _before_ she fell asleep?"

"Augh! You _perverts_, it wasn't like that!"


	3. Kyoya Ootori : Engagement : After School

A/N: **I don't know what to call this. Drabble? I think so. No, strike that, I DON'T know what it is, but I wrote it and here you are, another Kyoya Ootori for all of you fans out there. I enjoy writing him and Haruhi. They're just so perfect for each other: cynical, practical. Only Kyo could use some light-uppening.**

Disclaimer: _Nope. Still not of the owning of nothing._

Kyoya Ootori

Engagement

Snapshot Three:

_Safety Choice_

It was a picture taken through glass, one could tell that much. Through glass and through rain, probably from behind a car window. He would certainly blame it on one of the more softhearted of his security team to have taken his cell phone and snapped a picture, but he printed out a copy anyway and sent it to her.

It was through rain and through glass, and all it was, really was a blurry picture of two people on a bus-station bench, drenched with rain and disappointment.

**-x-**

He leaned over her, his tall, lanky body tense as she shuddered beneath him, tilting her head back. Her lips, painted bright red, shone in the muted light that came in through the window and underneath the door, a prelude to a kiss. He complied easily, pressing his lips to hers. Her mouth twisted into a smile, and she wiggled beneath him. He'd been chasing her long enough, hadn't he? Perhaps they'd go that much farther tonight—

"_What the hell is going on in here_?"

She was standing in the threshold of his bedroom, slight and fierce. There was a briefcase in one hand, a cell phone in the other, the opened screen dimming as she stopped pressing buttons, and an expression of murder on her face.

"H-H-Haruhi! I can explain!" Tamaki yelped, jumping off of the girl he'd been straddling lewdly, though they both were fully clothed, as if electrified.

"Oh, I know you can explain, Tamaki," she fire dancing in her normally docile brown eyes. "But telling the truth has never been your strong suit, has it?"

Not thinking of anything at all but fury, she whirled about-face and exited the room. Tamaki started to run after her, but the woman yet unnamed caught his arm, a look of supplication in her wide, cloudy-sky-gray eyes.

"Please stay," she whispered, and looked at him imploringly. "Why are you following her? We could be happy together. You said you loved me. You said that it wouldn't work, but you loved me almost as much as you loved her, that this was only . . . but you don't need her."

"I'll always need Haruhi," he said, shaking loose. "I'll never stop needing Haruhi."

And he left her, a mistress whose head had gotten too big, wondering, as she slowly gathered up the things she'd left in the room, what she would tell the other maids about this particular night with the handsome Master Suou.

He found Haruhi storming down the main hall to the front door, his unbuttoned shirt flapping absurdly about him as he ran. She heard him coming, and quickened her step, but his legs were longer and he faster. He caught her by the shoulders and whirled her around to face him. She struggled, but he held fast.

"Please, Haruhi—"

"You were cheating on me _again_!" she accused. He paled. "That's right, I know about all your little maid sluts, parading around my house and talking about me. I put up with it for a while, but I've not said anything long enough!"

"Haruhi. I'm a man of passion. And you insisted that we wait—I know it's no excuse—"

"You're damn right it's not!" Haruhi snapped. "'Man of passion'. Horny teenager!"

He stopped, not expecting this kind of verbal abuse. "Haruhi . . ."

"I'm tired of this, Tamaki. I'm going out, and don't you dare follow me."

"But Haruhi," he choked, his eyes brimming with tears as she wriggled out of his grip and started down the hallway. Her high heels for work made loud _crack_ing noises on the marble. "Haruhi, love is about forgiveness."

She paused, turned to face him, and there was a look of pity in her eyes as she held up the hand on which a diamond engagement ring glittered.

"Yes," she said bleakly. "I suppose that love is."

And he did not follow her as she exited the mansion that they shared.

Rain lashed her cheeks as she hurried down the street, the spring shower without thunder a welcome relief to her heated cheeks. Hurt and anger and resentment thrummed a steady burn of pain through her veins. She had never experienced heartbreak of this caliber before and, quite frankly, was completely unprepared.

Feeling thusly unequipped, she trudged towards the upscale bar on the corner of their street. If there was one thing that she had learned from her father, it was drink responsibly and it helps. She had enough money in her purse for a shot or two, and that sounded so appealing to her at the moment she fancied that maybe she wouldn't ever have to go back to Suou mansion number two, or face Tamaki, but then, she wasn't tipsy enough to believe such fanciful things.

There was a little bell that rang as she pushed her way inside. The interior was very cool and classy—all maroon velvets and dark-stained wood. She strode over to the bar and quickly ordered what Tamaki bought for her every time they were there, some tongue-tying complicated drink that tasted vaguely fruity and burned on the way down her throat. It was a Wednesday night, and there were only a group of three people drinking together at the bar, a woman and two men, conferring in French and laughing. Probably visiting businessmen. The tables were all empty.

She took a seat a few stools down from them and started talking to the bartender, who knew her vaguely from the many times she had come in there with Tamaki, making pretty with clients and businessmen who had something to do with Suou industries.

"Have you had any interesting lawsuits lately?" the woman behind the bar asked, polishing a glass cup idly.

"I had one last week," Haruhi said thoughtfully. "The mother of a child at Ouran Elementary filed a suit against the teacher because he confiscated a cell phone."

The bartender guffawed, then shook her head.

"Those rich people . . . they don't know what to do with all their money so they throw it at lawsuits," she sighed.

"I know," Haruhi said, tossing back her drink. "Thank goodness Tamaki isn't like that."

"How is he these days?" she asked, leaning on her elbows on the bar.

"I came home and caught him with one of the maids," Haruhi said shortly, and the bartenders jaw dropped.

"No! But he . . . he always seemed . . . so . . . so in love with you," she stuttered. "I mean, look at the rock! He spent so much money on just the engagement ring!"

"Money isn't exactly an object," Haruhi said glumly, watching the diamonds facets glitter in the dim light. "Not for Tamaki, at least."

"_Ma belle_," came the tentative words from the other side of the bar. "Do you mean Tamaki Suou?"

Haruhi glanced over at the Frenchmen with renewed interest.

"Yes, why?"

The man who had spoken grinned.

"We knew Tamaki when he was a boy, didn't we? Attended the same school as us in Paris." Her gentlemen companions nodded, and the woman stood from her seat, picking up her drink, and sat next to Haruhi. "How is he lately?"

"Happy," Haruhi said shortly. "He has been visiting his mother regularly. He inherited the family business, and his grandmother can't keep him from France anymore."

The trio exchanged glances.

"Hasn't paid us a visit," the woman said, and smiled wanly. She held out a hand. "_Bonjour. Je m'apelle Celeste. Et vous_?"

Haruhi knew enough French to reply "Haruhi."

"Another drink for the girl!" Celeste called to the bartender, who obliged, replicating the drink he had already made for her once.

"Ah, thank you," Haruhi said, accepting the drink.

"So, what do you do for a living, Haruhi? How do you know our Tamaki?" Celeste asked, her smile warm. Haruhi felt a sort of comfort swell in her chest. She had gone so long without seeing such an earnest, friendly face . . .

They sat and talked for what seemed to be hours. They told jokes, reminisced about Tamaki in his young age (he hadn't changed at all, judging from their descriptions of him), discussed world trade and what businesses they worked in, bought drinks.

Though she would never admit it, what she liked most was how they spoke to her, with French words and phrases integrated with the Japanese. Like Tamaki once had. '_Ma belle. J'adore tu_' My beauty, I love you.

After a while, Haruhi excused herself to the bathroom.

The face in the mirror was flushed, dark hair falling in the boyish cut she'd kept since school, eyes shining defiantly. The face in the mirror didn't need a man to hold her up, the face in the mirror didn't need to return to the mansion in which plans were being made for a wedding she didn't want. The face in the mirror needed to have it's makeup reapplied, and she obliged.

She left the bathroom feeling fresher, and the trio of Frenchmen (women? People?) were clustered at the end of the bar. Celeste looked up from where she was chatting and grinned.

"We got a phone call from home. We need to discuss some things, we'll only be a minute."

She sat at the bar and sipped at her newest drink, and listened to the snippets of conversation that drifted over. It didn't matter much, they were conversing in French.

"—_Avez-vous vu cet anneau? Il doit valoir des milliers—_"

"_—Ah, elle est ivre. Il ne sera pas dur de recevoir son extérieur—_"

The bell in the door chimed again, and someone walked in.

Soundlessly, someone took the seat next to her. They didn't say anything, and at this point, she was too lulled by the pretty sound of their French words to care.

"_En ce qui concerne Tamaki ? Il ne viendra pas après nous si elle répète?_"

"_Ah, ce n'est aucun problème, je lui ai donné un nom faux._"

"Haruhi."

"Huh?" She sat up. She had rested her head upon her propped-up hands, and nearly fallen asleep. Haruhi shook her head hard to dispel the dregs of fatigue that linger after nearly succumbing, and as she turned her head to the side she was met by a familiar face. It took a minute to register it, but when she did, it was with indignation.

"Tamaki sent you after me, didn't he?" she asked accusingly, glaring heavily at Kyoya Ootori, who grimaced.

"Haruhi, we've got to leave right now."

"'Drather not, thanks," she said, burying her face in her arms again. She hadn't seen Kyoya anywhere but at events since graduation, and at her and Tamaki's engagement party, but she knew that Tamaki kept their close friendship, and she had hardly forgotten the Shadow King.

"Haruhi, if only you knew French . . . "

"What?" she asked, her voice muffled. She raised her head again. He was prodding at his drink with a stirrer, making the ice clink, and to all eyes looked as if he was making polite small talk.

"Do you know what they're saying?"

"No."

"Come with me. Please, Haruhi. I'm your only chance of getting out here alive, or at least unharmed tonight"

Haruhi looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes. She hadn't had a drink for nearly an hour and a half, and she knew it took two to have the liver filter alcohol completely out of your system, but she felt normal at that moment, scared into sobriety.

"What—?"

"Just come with me."

Knowing that, at least, no harm would come by her if she came with Kyoya and she was hardly taking any chances with these French people who she didn't know at all, she watched him slam down a bill on the bar and followed him outside. Behind her, she could hear the exclamation—

"_Ma belle_! Where are you going—? _Damnez tout cela_!"

"What was that?" she asked, following him out into the light rain which served to awaken her further.

"They were discussing how much your ring would go for on the black market, how bad Tamaki would be upset if you came home to him beaten up or even if you were killed, and the man on the far right was going into rather disgusting detail on what he'd like to do to you."

Haruhi paled, her already white skin growing whiter.

"I don't—" she began to stutter, but he placed an arm around her shoulder and began to lead her down the street.

"Let's just take you home," he said gently, leading her down the street.

"Where's the Ootori guard?" she asked, slightly dazedly—she was surprised he'd come in alone.

"There," he said carelessly, jerking his head to a sleek black car on the opposite side of the street.

Her large home—_their_ large home, she forced herself to think, it had been Tamaki's before it had been hers—loomed tall and impressive just a few hundred feet down the street. Her feet felt like lead, she knew what awaited her at home.

"Tamaki sent you, didn't he?" she asked again, realizing she hadn't received an answer the first time he asked.

"He did. He knew you wouldn't have gone far. He was really upset, Haruhi. He loves you."

Those words were not Kyoyas. She could see Tamaki bawling at him through the phone, begging him to relay the message.

"He does." She looked away. "Please, can we not go home? Not yet?"

Kyoya looked surprised.

"But I thought maybe—after that—you would want to go home."

"I don't. I don't want to go home at all," Haruhi said bleakly. "Look, can we just sit here?" She pointed to a bench on the side of the sidewalk, tucked between two buildings.

"In the rain?" he asked, and she looked up at him, amused in spite of herself.

"We're soaked already," she said pointedly, and he sighed, agreeing with her.

"We'll sit for a while," he allowed.

So they did. They were already soaked, and some remnants of alcohol in her system let her lean her head on his shoulder, and he put his arm around hers. She kept thinking what might've happened should she have stayed in the bar, should he have not found her.

"You know, everyone misses you," he said out of nowhere.

"Huh?" she asked, looking up at him confusedly.

"You and Tamaki reconnected because he hunted you down and . . . and proposed when you got out of Law School." He seemed to have trouble with the word _proposed_. "But the twins and Hunny and Mori, even, they all miss you."

"I send them Christmas cards," she defended weakly. He shook his head.

"Not the same," he said brutally. "Especially to the twins. They used to see you every day, and they're having trouble not talking to you anymore."

"Oh . . ." she said, looking stricken. "I'll call them and ask them if they'd like to go out to dinner or something sometime . . ." A thought seemed to occur to her. "Do you miss me?"

"Of course I miss you, Haruhi," Kyoya said, in the voice of a person who has just realized a lie is true as they say it.

"Oh," she said. She didn't know what to say—she'd been too busy to miss them much at all. She'd been too occupied loving Tamaki. That, and not law, had become her full-time job.

"Haruhi . . ." Kyoya began, and then stopped. Haruhi looked up at him, and noticed something she hadn't before—his face was carved and waxen, and ghosts lingered underneath his eyes. Still handsome. Still as handsome as all his friends.

"So, Kyoya," she blurted without thinking. "Do you have any marriage prospects?"

He looked at her with the barest trace of a smile.

"Can't say I do. Why?"

"Well . . . I don't know . . . with the wedding so close . . .It's just sort of been on my mind . . . wondering about the other Hosts and yourself . . ."

"Well, I haven't. Oh, by the way, Haruhi, what did Tamaki do to make you leave? What offense did he commit?"

"He's been cheating on me," she said matter-of-factly. "Has been for a while but I finally got up my nerve to confront him."

She felt his arm tense around her.

"Haruhi, are you being serious?"

"Would I joke with you?" she asked, indignant. He scowled.

"I _knew_ he would do something like this. Doesn't deserve you," he muttered harshly. She looked up at him, surprised.

"What?"

"Let me guess: you said yes to him because he'd be exciting, didn't you?"

Haruhi stared at him. _What?_

"When Tamaki proposed, what were you thinking when you said yes?"

It wasn't an accusation, but a question.

"That's very personal," Haruhi said, still confused.

"I'd like to know," he persisted, not pulling back and apologizing as Haruhi thought he would. And this insistence, disbalance in character, struck a chord with her, prompted her to answer.

"Um. Happy, I suppose. Looking forward to . . . lots of good times? Knew I'd never be bored." She looked up at him expectantly. Had that been what he was looking for?

She guessed so, because he nodded vigorously to himself.

"Exactly. But you know what's wrong with all that excitement, Haruhi? I learned this being his friend. However much he likes you, when you're not willing or able to be conned into joining him in the fun, he takes up with other people who are."

"That's unfair," she said weakly, knowing it was true.

"You caught him cheating on you, didn't you?" he said softly. "You're not part of his fun anymore."

"That—that's not true," she defended, and thought back; how long had it been since she and Tamaki had laughed themselves hoarse, since she had kissed him with the ardor of a woman fresh in love. So long.

"Tamaki has a good heart, but he's a fickle man," Kyoya said softly, brushing strands of sopping hair out of her face. "He only had the good fortune to find you before any of the rest of us when you were ready."

"Ready?" she asked.

"Ready to understand what we've all been telling you."

It was true. Fujioka Haruhi, aged twenty-five, was much less naïve than Fujioka Haruhi, aged sixteen. And this new, more knowledgeable Haruhi knew what Kyoya was getting at.

"Oh, Kyoya. You know I can't. I—"

"I understand," he said quickly. "I just thought you should know."

"I—I'm glad I do, now."

"Don't feel bad," he said, his eyes unhappy. "It's my fault I'm a safety choice."

She smiled at him, her lips twisted up in the wryest of expressions.

"You know, Kyoya, you may be a safety choice, but I never feel safer than when I'm with you."

He leaned forward just that little bit, almost as if he would embrace her, but she held up her hand. Not palm-up; Time-Out, Keep away, but the back of her hand, the ring glittering almost garishly in the street lamps, raindrops dripping off it in large, bulbous droplets. And cautiously, he brushed his lips over it, and it was a talisman drained of all it's powers, and like a shield had been deactivated, she hugged him tightly, afraid of what would have happened had he not walked into the bar when he did, afraid of what awaited her at home, and afraid of what he would think of her after this, what might happen, what had happened, her head afloat in whatifs.

**-x-**

"Haruhi!"

She was caught by a blond torpedo as soon as she stepped through the door to Suou mansion number two. Tamaki was hugging her tightly around the middle, bawling out pleas for her forgiveness. And he was the little boy he would always be, and now that she realized it, this was her safety choice. This was her no-pain decision, because no one else would express their grief for her not selecting them but Tamaki.

"Honey, Honey," she said, nearly smiling, into his hair. "Let me go. I forgive you."

He relinquished his hold around her middle and looked at her, his eyes full of disbelief and apprehensive happiness, and she hugged _him_, the proper kind of hug, where the man shelters the woman and she feels safe; saying;

"Love is about forgiveness."

She felt the sigh of relief that wracked his chest, felt the muscles in his arms work hard to hold her to him just as tightly as he could, and it was almost a shame.

Because her ring was in her pocket, a talisman drained of all it's powers, and her heart was beating, empty of affection for him, but she would stay with him always, her Safety Choice.

**The end is angst-filled, I do admit xD Giving up the one she likes more for a Safety Choice . . . This got to be VERY long, but I'm very pleased with how it turned out. And it's kind of a bitch for HaruTama fans, but there you are. I mean, not that I don't like them together. Just that, I prefer HaruKyoya. So there. Nyeh. :P**

**Luffles;**

**Va-can-cee**


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